


In Memoriam

by thalialunacy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Summer Pornathon 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Queen Gwen dreams of her late husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Week 5 canon-compliant challenge at summerpornathon. I must admit, I took it very literally.

Each year, it gets harder.

They say time heals all wounds. But his absence isn't a wound; it isn't so neat, so easily sutured.

It's more like an ache. Like the ache you get every month, every month as the moon wanes. Only, in this the waning has to do with Merlin, and Leon, and the nights you nearly collapse into bed after standing strong for a seemingly endless parade of ragged, weary, life-torn people, all of whom you want to help, and very few of whom you actually can.

He used to rub your shoulders, on these days. Your feet, sometimes.

The bed feels huge without him, and always will, but this night, the year count, is always worse. You roll over to his side, clutching at the pillow that has long since lost his scent, and close your eyes on the tears that threaten.

Sleep comes slowly, but thoroughly.

\---

His shape, his beloved shape, fits just right against your back just as it always did, warm and whole and perfect. The tears spill out, now, but his hands are there to brush them off your face, his lips following after with kisses and murmured words. "I'm here, love. I'm here."

You feel the smile tug on your lips, the dichotomy of the emotions coursing through you awakening your very cells in a way that only he can. His hands slide up your belly—which is different, now, not with child but still with time, the inevitability of time—and to your breasts, a fond caress that douses your fears and spurs you to turn, tuck one leg over his strong thigh and kiss him. He tastes of all the things you remember—heat and sweat and wine and mint and _Arthur_.

Beloved.

His hands are under your shift, now, where they belong, rough-skinned but gentle, so gentle with touches, until he's catalogued your whole body again, and again, each caress a lit flame in your belly, a rolling, roiling heat along your skin. His mouth finds your breast and your fingers weave through his hair, keeping him there until you can't stand it, until you feel like he has to stop or you'll just explode, into little pieces of sparkling dark ash against the cream-coloured sheets.

So you pull him up, search out his lips with yours, and roll him onto you, the weight heavy and welcome. So welcome.

When he slips inside you, curls into you until you're as connected as two people can be, it's almost an afterthought. The last click of the tumblers as you lock together.

Always.

\---

You wake up the next morning clutching at cold, sweat-soaked sheets. Alone, always alone, and you wish so hard, as you did when you were a child, that you could just stay in bed all morning. Like you used to do with him, on lazy winter days when he would bar the door and send the servants away and let you warm your hands on his skin, until you both were warm enough for days.

But never mind. The anniversary is over. The past is done. The last queen of Camelot must not falter.

And will not.


End file.
